Chuisle mo Chroí (Pulse of my Heart)
by LollypopGuild
Summary: 30 days and 30 nights... That's all it takes to make her fall in love with him. He lies to himself that it's all for the case, but everything seems to be falling apart. He's feeling, he's using, and he's losing the battle to stay detached and mercenary. Then he realises he's chosen a woman who's too much like himself to just walk away from. Sherline. Adult themes.
1. Prelude I

**_WARNING_** : **Explicit sex, extreme swearing,** **graphic drug use, bodily horror, adult themes and upsetting scenes. I have been reliably informed that this story is disturbing and unsettling. Please use your common sense. Do not read if you are under 18. Do not read this if you think it will trigger you.**

**I own nothing but an action figure of Jack Harkness, suspiciously distressed in the paintwork.**

***No-one's reputation was harmed during the making of this fic.**

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><p><em><strong><span>CHUISLE MO CHROÍ - P<span>**_**_ULSE OF MY HEART_**

_The undisclosed story of Sherlock and Janine._

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><p><strong><em>"Chuisle mo chroí<em>**** - ('kʊʃlə mə'kri) : n. Literally 'pulse of my heart'.**

**An Irish gaelic term of endearment, often shortened to A'kushla."**

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><p><strong><em><span>PRELUDE I<span>_**

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><p><em>Friday 2nd November 2012<em>

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><p>Charles Magnussen left the Imperial Club at around eight and emerged into the crisp, cluttered night of Whitehall, where his driver stood holding the door of the Mercedes.<p>

People flocked the street like drones, attracted by the jaundiced glow of the sodium lamps. Aromas of leather, burning beech-wood and single malt still clung to his suit, but it was the lingering taste of _Clair de la Lune_ which he savoured the most. He filed the sensation away for future reference. It was no longer the bitter tang of an expensive perfume; it was now the taste of victory, of total political domination.

He would have her eating out of his hand.

He laughed to himself as he slid into the back seat and rearranged his jacket; a short, sharp, humourless sound. _Elizabeth_, he mouthed, enjoying the way his mouth caressed the consonants, salivating at the thought of violating her. It had been a long time since she'd turned down his romantic advances; they had been at Oxford together, although in different years, but he'd never forgotten the haughty way in which she'd rejected him, the sting of the slap. He'd been unused to being denied, even then, but he knew he'd conquer her when the time was ripe, when it was to his advantage. He always knew that one day he would _own_ her.

_My_, but she was beautiful back then, the kind of fine bone-structure and English rose hide that was reserved for the very finest upper-class livestock. Age and stress had done little to detract from her poise and grace. In fact, it had improved her. She was like a fine whiskey, complex, and with a brittle strength that he knew he would enjoy shattering. The strong ones, or those who _thought_ they were strong, were the most fun. What point was there in breaking someone who was quick to grovel? There was no sport in it.

"Where to, Mr Magnussen?" Michael's bright voice broke through his reverie.

"Wait a minute," he said in a low purr, "I want to see where she goes."

"Very well, sir."

They waited, watching through smoked glass, as Lady Elizabeth Smallwood quit the club and her car pulled away.

"Stay at least three cars behind." Magnussen rested splayed fingers across his mouth and leaned on the arm rest as he dialled his mobile with his free hand.

Twenty-five minutes later, after a couple of false turns in Knightsbridge, Lady Smallwood's car stopped outside an inconspicuous Georgian town-house in Marylebone. Magnussen instructed Michael to pass it without stopping, slowly enough for him to check the number on the door.

"Where are we, Michael?"

The driver checked his sat-nav. "Baker Street, I believe."

"Interesting."

"Indeed, sir."

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><p><em>Monday 5th November 2012<em>

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><p><em>"Janine," <em>a voice floated through the intercom,_ "would you be so kind as to bring in the coffee for our guest."_

She leaned over her desk the wrong way and depressed a button on the phone. "No problem."

Like she didn't already have enough to do. She'd worked really hard to get this far in her career. People didn't realise that behind every great CEO there was a PA busting their ass. They thought a personal assistant was just a glorified receptionist; they didn't know how demanding it was being a professional organiser, involved in every little aspect of someone else's life and having nothing left for yourself. It was like being the manager of a stroppy rock star; she had almost superhuman levels of patience with his antics and would probably never get the recognition that she deserved. She worked every hour that God sent, didn't have a social life to speak of, let alone a relationship, studied business in the little free time she did have... and Magnussen was still buzzing her for coffee like she was an eager to please intern. As his wealth and notoriety increased over the years it had only gotten harder. But she would have her day... all this would pay off eventually.

Just as she righted herself, twenty-three year old Kayleigh came into the reception, a stack of white envelopes tucked under her arm. Janine caught her eye.

"No _way_," the younger woman pointed at the floor, defensively, "he wants you."

"Oh, come on. It's your turn. I'm up to my neck."

"Last time he stroked my hair when I put the tray down on the table. He wouldn't dare do that to you."

"It'll be alright, so. He's got someone with him, that private investigator, what's-his-physog."

"Then you won't mind going in there and checking him out, will you." Kayleigh stood her ground.

"You have a point. He did look rather yummy on the way through. How much do private investigators earn?"

"See what I mean. You're incorrigible."

"This time, but remember _you_ are the office junior and you are supposed to be making the coffee for _me_, let alone him."

She made the coffee to Magnussen's exact specifications, (she never could trust anyone else to do it properly anyway,) put some of those pastries from _Paul _on a plate and checked her hair and make-up before she went in.

She pushed the door to Magnussen's airy, modern office with her behind, so as not to spill anything.

On closer inspection, the PI _was_ rather dishy, with messy, dark blonde hair and a couple of day's-worth of stubble on a well formed chin. It was important, the chin; you didn't want anything too masculine and chiselled, but you didn't want anything too squishy and receding either. As it happened, this one was just right; it was a kind face, rather than a classically handsome face which, she reasoned, probably helped a lot with the blending into a crowd. He was dressed in dark Giorgio jeans, an un-ironed hemp shirt and a cropped jacket that looked like a generic high street imitation of something vaguely military. A well-fingered cord around his neck looked like it had once held a pendant of some sort, but he hadn't bothered to remove it after the pendant's demise. The whole ensemble was almost surfer-ish and not entirely appropriate for a meeting with a businessman of Magnussen's calibre.

She put the tray down on the glass coffee table and issued the PI with a devastating smile. She might have flashed him a little bit of cleavage too. He smiled back and tugged unconsciously at the knees of his jeans to make his sitting position more comfortable.

"Ah, there she is," said Magnussen, "Janine, have you met Mr North?"

"_Alexander_ North," he extended a hand, beginning to rise. He was at least six foot-three.

"Please," she shook it, "don't get up,"

"But my, uh, my friends call me Sandy."

"Are we?" she said too quickly, looking at Magnussen, "friends, I mean."

_Jaysus, did I really just say that?_

A subtle exchange passed between the three people; her own flirting, asserting her sexual power and availability; Magnussen's quiet management of the situation which told her a storm was brewing; and Sandy's affable, approachable persona, all part of the facade he wanted to project. She wasn't naïve; she knew this was a game. It was always a game.

"Look at that. You've put three cups by mistake," Magnussen called her out mischievously, "sit down, you must join us for coffee."

"I'm kinda snowed under right now," she bluffed.

"I insist." He smiled that hollow, serpentine smile.

"Well, I suppose the budget can wait." Her smile was as false as his own.

"Shall I pour?" said Magnussen, reaching out to plunge the cafetiere.

_Weird._

"Sure." Janine didn't know what else to say. She was forced to take the seat next to Magnussen because Sandy was spreading himself out casually, and it would've been impossible to take up residence on that sofa without either moving him or getting a bit too close. She quite liked the way he sat with his legs apart, and this way she could watch him without being too obvious. _Hypocritical Janine,_ scalded the voice inside her head, _objectifying men... _

Magnussen poured coffee into the cup nearest to her, but instead of letting her have it, he pulled it toward himself along the length of the table, and made a show of stirring it and putting in sugar and cream. Then he sat back with the cup and saucer and looked amused.

_Shit._ Janine realised what he was doing. She pressed her lips tightly together. Sandy caught her eye almost imperceptibly, confused by Magnussen's behaviour.

It was the warning sign that things were only going to get more uncomfortable. This was how it usually went; they would talk business for half an hour or so and then Magnussen would pull some complete non sequitur out of the hat, making himself look like a total nut-job. She had seen enough of these pantomimes to know he was just playing his own pathetic game that no one else got, but Magnussen apparently believed it set the clients and staff on the back foot and gave him some kind of advantage.

She poured out the coffee for Sandy and herself with a long-suffering sigh. "Has Charles showed you his collection of antique handcuffs, thumb cuffs and nippers?" Her eyes darted toward a glass display case on the other side of the room. A weak autumn sun streamed in through the high glass walls.

"Not yet," Sandy smiled, "God knows, I'm familiar with handcuffs, but what's a nipper and a… thumb cuff?"

Janine didn't even look up from the coffee tray as she explained, stirring sugar cubes into her drink like it was the most natural and mundane thing in the world. "Well, a nipper is a handcuff for one hand, kinda like a pincer, but it has a handle for keeping the cuffed person under control. I would've thought a thumb cuff is pretty self-explanatory. It locks your thumbs together. It has the advantage of being the most painful and inconvenient way of securing a prisoner."

Magnussen beamed proudly. "That's my girl."

"I hope you haven't got one of those things that cuts your thumbs _off_," Sandy chuckled.

Magnussen looked at him utterly seriously. "Oh, yes I do have one of those. Not here, but at my house."

"Right," said Sandy, rather dubiously. Then as a joke he added, "have you ever tested it on anyone?"

"I snapped it onto Janine once, when she was typing," Magnussen said, in all seriousness, "but she wasn't amused."

Then 'it' happened. The inevitable, demented thing that had been brewing since the conversation began. Magnussen's action was so licentious, so unbelievably vulgar, that it would be considered obscene to the outside world. But they weren't in the outside world; they were in Magnussen's kingdom. He reached out and placed his icky, moist hand on her knee.

Her heart palpitated in shame as she heroically kept her reaction under control. She could see confusion and indignation flicker across Sandy's face. She was wearing a short-ish black Stella McCartney number and killer heels, and she shifted and uncrossed her legs to discretely try and shake him off. But there it stayed; his sweaty paw creeping even further up her stocking-ed thigh.

_Oh,_ if only she could cut _it_ off.

This was unusually shitty, even for him. He would normally keep his creepy tendencies under control when real people were around, but there must be something different about Sandy. Maybe Magnussen sensed the attraction between them and wanted to assert his control over her, claiming her for himself.

"Don't be alarmed; I would never hurt her. She _is_ rather special, my Janine," Magnussen explained in his slow monotone, "she's my right hand. Without her I could do nothing. In fact, I often wonder how I managed before I found her. What would I do without her sparkling wit and her…" he breathed her in and his eyes danced over her as one might appraise a paramour, "extraordinary efficiency?"

Janine pretended to be pleased. The skin of her thigh still burned with the unwelcome pressure of his touch and her stomach threatened to rebel and bring up her breakfast.

Sandy looked subtly disturbed.

"Let us get down to business, then," said Magnussen, patting her thigh, then removing his hand like nothing had been out of the ordinary.

Janine smoothed out her hem, very carefully controlling her breathing so as not to give away the relief that replaced the sensation of his groping.

Sandy recovered, blinking away his shock and picked up a dossier from the coffee table.

"What - " Janine faltered, picking up her cup and saucer. It rattled conspicuously in her trembling hand, " - exactly do you need me for?"

"You're going to be the uh, shill." Sandy obviously had no idea that this was all news to her.

"The what?"

"The shill," said Sandy, "the stooge, the plant - "

"Show her the photographs," said Magnussen.

Sandy opened the Manila folder and pulled out an A4 photograph of a woman with long blonde hair in a ponytail, about forty, minimal make-up… attractive in a boring, suburban kind of way. The picture had been taken outside a primary school gate at home time. The woman's hands were tucked into her Aran knitwear. Under the cardigan were blue medical scrubs. She was turned slightly toward the camera but clearly didn't know she was being snapped. Janine was grateful to have something else to focus on, other than what had just happened.

"Her name is Naomi Harrington," said Sandy.

"And what has this got to do with me?" Janine glared at her boss, still slightly shaken.

"She's stolen something from me. Something I value highly, something quite, quite priceless. You are going to get close to her and help me get it back." Magnussen's eyes bored through her, emotionless.

_He's gone too far this time, _she silently fumed. She would have to be careful not to show any vulnerability right now, show anything that could be exploited. He would expect her full cooperation, as if he owned her, and she was just have to do whatever he said. The threat of what he'd do if she didn't play along was always implicit.

"What has she stolen from you?" she asked, but Magnussen just sat back in his seat and sipped the coffee from the dainty cup, ignoring her until she acquiesced to his demands. Eventually she said, "why don't you go to the police?"

"I'd rather not involve the authorities at this time. It's rather… sensitive."

"How am I going to get this thing back if I don't even know what it is?"

"You will know what it is when you see it. Mr North knows what it is, but his attempts at retrieval have been so far unsuccessful. She is devoted to her partner and has rejected Mr North's attempts to get into her life. Unfortunately she now knows his face and is suspicious. I fear that if you knew what the item was, or even its value, it would bias you and it would become obvious to her what you're trying to do. For the time being, you are just going to try to be friends with her. Now, that's not so difficult, is it?"

"You just want me to come alongside her and try to make friends? That's all?" _Okay,_ maybe she could do this just to get Magnussen off her back.

Sandy put the photographs back in the folder. "On the tenth of October she's booked into a cookery class at Atsuko's in Shoreditch. I'll get you on the roster for that evening and you can make your approach. We'll meet together before hand so that I can teach you a few tricks to help you infiltrate, make sure you know how to protect yourself, if things go tits up."

"I know how to defend myself."

"I'm sure you do."

Magnussen picked up a pointed knife and began to saw one of the pastries in half. "We have the most wonderful pastries in Denmark, Mr North. They are loaded with _kvark,_ and when you cut into them, you can see it running all the way through like the rings on a tree. When I was a child I used to wonder how they got it all in there. Until I learned that it is folded in from the beginning and the baker always has complete control over how the product will turn out."

Janine automatically fished an antibacterial wipe out of the packet.

Cream cheese began to ooze out of the cut side of the pastry. Magnussen turned, smirking, and took the wipe. "Janine, can you think of something else that shows its true nature when you cut into it?"

"I, uh, if that's all, I have a lot to be getting on with." She rose from her seat and tugged down her skirt. _Just keep it together for a few more seconds. _"It was lovely to meet you, Mr North - "

"Sandy."

"Sandy, yes. Oh, and Charles, don't forget you have a meeting with the deputy editor of LWT at one and we're flying out to Dubai at four fifteen."

"That reminds me. I would like you to buy a new dress when we arrive. At my expense, of course. The sheik is rather fond of purple. I hope you will keep that in mind."

"Yes, of course. I'll speak to you later, when I've finished the budget."

"And please be sure to keep me updated on how your new _girl_ is getting on."

* * *

><p>Janine plonked the tray down near the sink rather violently. The coffee paraphernalia jumped but did not break. She leaned on the counter trying to pull herself together.<p>

"What's the matter?" Kayleigh shuffled closer, as one would approach a dangerous animal, freaked out by the older woman's sudden change in countenance.

"Charles just completely and utterly humiliated me in front of that guy."

"You're shaking."

Janine looked at her bare arms. Yes, she was a bit, more with anger than anything else… _Bastard._ "If he ever touches you again, you come and tell me, do you understand?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Cut his bollocks off."

"How are you going to do that?" Kayleigh's eyes were wide.

"I don't know yet, but I will find a way."


	2. Prelude II

**PRELUDE II**

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><p><em>Wednesday 10th November 2012<em>

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><p>"It's very nice to see you again, Janine," was the first thing Sandy said when she got in the passenger side of his 1963 Ford Consul Classic. "How was Dubai?"<p>

"You remembered." She checked him out. _Yep, still hot. _Looking like a taller version of a quasi-Matt Damon with his legs crammed uncomfortably under the steering wheel.

"It's my job to know stuff like that."

"Right," she said, "well, I was dressed up like a bloody aubergine and it was hot and boring and full of Charles' rich, be-yachted friends. If you could call them friends. They're bonded only by standing around drinking champagne, talking about golf and congratulating each other on having a yacht. And a penis. You can't just ride around in a car with someone you're not married to out there, so I have to pretend to be his wife in public. It's pretty shitty as things go."

"I hope he didn't try anything on."

She looked at him, the whites of her eyes glistening in the dark. She knew he was talking about what happened when he visited the office last week. It was a bit forward of him, considering they'd only met once before. He probably had all the dirt on her too and felt like he knew her. But that didn't excuse him poking his nose into a situation he didn't understand, though. No-one understood how… _trapped_ she was.

She wasn't sure whether to be outraged at his unsolicited opinion, or flattered that he cared. Did she _want_ him to care? She hadn't really made her mind up yet. _Hang on a second. _She knew what he was doing here; he was testing her. _Very clever, Charlie. Get me to help out the PI, but what you're really doing is testing my loyalty. _This had become a rather complex situation very quickly.

"It's not like that. It's just part of his sick game."

"It's just," he started uncomfortably, "I wasn't quite sure what I was witnessing."

"It's complicated and _absolutely_ none of your business."

Luckily Sandy knew when to back off. "For the record, I would never do something like that," he said quietly.

"No, you'd never invade someone else's personal space without being invited, would you," she said dryly, then decided to change the subject. "What's with the car? I though you gum-shoes were supposed to be inconspicuous."

"Well, you know, my dad left her to me and it's kind of become my trademark. She wouldn't have any fun stuck in the lock-up, so I bring her on stake-outs." He patted the dash affectionately.

_Great,_ she thought, _guys in love with his car. "_Has she got a name?"

"Bettina, because the registration's BET1A."

"Jaysus - "

"What? Do you think I'm weird or something?"

"No, it's just," she laughed and shook her head, "you're nothing like I thought you would be."

"What did you _think_ I'd be like?"

"I don't know. Sophisticated somehow..."

"Oh, thanks."

"I was sure you'd tell me off for thinking you did all the obvious clichéd stuff."

"Well, there's a lot of hunting down debtors, insurance scams and waiting around in the cold doing nothing for not enough money. Not exactly the glamorous lifestyle people imagine. That's why I agreed to take this case; your boss is paying me a huge retainer just to be on standby for any little bit of information he wants."

"So, do you know what this thing is?"

"The thing Naomi stole?" He exhaled slowly in consideration. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but you're going to find them sooner or later. It's a set of pearls. A set of six huge pearls. A lot like the one in your ring."

She looked at her hand. "Charles gave me this."

"Do you know anything about pearls?"

"I went to an exhibition at the V&A."

"Then you'll know the large, flawless ones are extremely valuable. Even more than diamonds of the same size, in some cases."

They sat in silence for a moment, steaming up the windows with their breath. She decided that she liked him after all. Banter was fun, but she would still have to be careful; he'd been employed by Magnussen to catch this thief, but if she knew her boss, he would have factored in a way to manipulate everyone involved, including her. She had to assume Sandy already knew everything incriminating about her. It made the whole thing rather thrilling and dangerous, like a bond movie. If she was clever, if she played along, she might be able to dig up something she could burn Magnussen with too. It would be worth it in the long run.

"Anyway," said Sandy, breaking the tension by starting up Bettina, "we can't sit around chatting all evening; you have a cookery class to attend. Now, unfortunately I didn't have time to schedule in a session with you - "

"A _session_?" she coughed, catching his eye.

"A _training_ session," he rolled his eyes as they set off, "on the techniques I want you to use. So I'll fill you in on the way."

* * *

><p>The demonstration turned out to be quite interesting. A middle-aged woman talked at length about miso and how it was the cornerstone of Japanese cuisine, demonstrating the different tastes and uses. Janine tried to watch Naomi in her peripheral vision, just like Sandy had told her. She made a mental note of where the woman put her handbag, what kind of phone she had and whether she left it unattended at any point. She listened carefully to which of the demonstrator's comments made Naomi laugh and laughed at the same things.<p>

It was quite a mixed bunch of patrons. A banker's wife, a para-legal, a computer game engineer, a nurse, a couple in their fifties who'd honeymooned in Kyoto and wanted to rekindle their youth. Naomi Harrington herself. They all made small talk and bounced off each other, the way any group of people would when thrown into a team situation. But Janine found she couldn't really enjoy herself because of the pressure of doing something which may find her on the wrong side of someone... who was on the wrong side of the law.

Halfway through the lesson, her hands up to the elbows in a plastic bag of soya beans, she looked over at Naomi hoping for a response, a hint of recognition, anything. But there was nothing, not even a flicker. Another woman, the nurse she'd introduced herself to at the start, caught her looking at Naomi and she realised that her gaze might have been misconstrued as something more than a casual interest. _Oh, shit._ The nurse, what's-her-name, gave her a funny little half confused smile, with her hands in her own mixture. Janine turned away, hoping she hadn't blown her cover.

She did exactly what Sandy told her to, but as the evening drew to a close, and she washed the soy gloop off her hands, she realised she hadn't even made a chink in Naomi's armour. She drew a total blank.

Emerging back onto the street, she stopped to put on gloves and wrap her scarf up to her mouth against the cold fog. Naomi came out after her and walked away purposefully, without ever looking back. Janine watched her go.

"She's got a great bum," came a voice to her right.

Janine looked up in surprise. It was the nurse. _What was her name?_ "I'm sorry?"

"The surgeon. She's gorgeous. That's why you've been staring at her all night, right?"

The nurse was a little bit shorter than her, not much, and had short-ish bleach-blonde hair. She was rather beautiful, now that Janine looked properly and wasn't distracted by something else. She had an elegant, timeless quality that belied her sensible shoes and practical clothes. She had a poppy in her left coat lapel.

"Oh, I'm not - " Janine said, recovering, _better think fast_, "I wasn't looking at her like _that_. No, um, she has something that belongs to my boyfriend."

"Ah, the old stalking the boyfriend's ex to get his stuff back trick. I've seen it many times." The nurse smiled warmly.

"Yeah, something like that."

"What did you think?"

"Huh?" Janine's breath turned to fog in the cold night.

"The course. What did you think of the course?"

"Great." She stuck her hands in the pockets of her white wool Alexander McQueen.

"So I'll see you next week, then?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." Then she stopped. "How did you know she was a surgeon? She never mentioned it to anyone."

"That's typical. You spent the whole evening staring at her, but you never noticed her hands."

"What about her hands?"

"Well, it's the stuff they scrub in with, see. It's very drying. And then there's the way she moves."

"Hmmm," Janine was impressed. She stuck out her hand, "I'm Janine."

"Mary Morstan." They shook. "And I, uh, think your boyfriend is trying to get your attention."

Janine looked across the street to where Sandy was waiting in Bettina. "So he is. Catcha later."

* * *

><p>"Who was that?"<p>

"Dunno." Janine slammed the car door. "Well, that was a complete waste of time. She's totally shut down, didn't even make eye contact."

"Did you follow my instructions?"

"Yes."

"To the letter?"

"_YES._"

The windows began to steam up.

"Looks like you're not as charismatic as I thought." But when she shot him a _you're-not-that-funny_ look, he abandoned that line of conversation. "Don't worry, all is not lost. It just looks like the two of us are in this for the long haul, that's all."

"I'm quickly finding out that this investigating business isn't quite as straight forward as I thought. Who's going to tell Charles that nothing went to plan?"

"I'll keep him updated. What do you want to do now? I could drive you home, or - "

"Actually, I'm starving. You only get a tiny nibble at that thing." She paused and he laughed. She looked down at his strong, tanned hand on the gear-stick._ Don't, _she told herself_, just don't do it. The last thing you need right now is to indulge your addiction..._ "D'ya wanna get a kebab, or something?"

_Damn._

"Yeah, why not?"

* * *

><p>"Are you sure about this?" Sandy fell heavily onto the sofa as she pushed him back aggressively. The lights were low. Janine hadn't bothered to flick the switch on, but she always left a table lamp on a timer when she was out.<p>

No, she _wasn't_ sure if she should make everything worse by having meaningless, casual sex with someone she'd just met. She'd tried... she'd really tried to keep her impulses under control, but when she was under a lot of stress all her good resolutions went out of the window. She had nothing else that would take away the terrible, crushing pain of everyday life. Trouble was, it always ended up being more damaging in the long term. She wrestled with her conscience for a full three seconds... _oh, what the hell._

Her therapist would not be pleased.

In lieu of an answer she shimmied off her knickers. Her coat and bag and shoes were already stripped off, lying in a heap by the door. She started to roll her stockings down.

"No, leave them on," he said, breathlessly, his eyes dancing over her in hope of fulfilling a deep seated hunger. He was straining against his jeans, so she reached down and unbuttoned them, tugging them down to his ankles. He helpfully lifted his butt. He was larger than she expected, _ooh goody_, and he pumped his erection a few times with his hand to make sure it was hard enough.

She whipped the dress off over her head and flung it into an unspecific corner of her open-plan abode.

It felt good to be unclothed at last, but she wished that she'd left the heating on. She could tell that he caught a glimpse of her box, because his eyes changed, and the black stockings brushed against his thighs as she pushed his shoulders back and climbed onto his lap.

He tried to kiss her then, but she turned her head away at the last second. Kissing was for people who loved each other. Instead, his lips landed on her neck, just below her ear, and he bit into it and sucked a little. "Mmm, you taste of shwarma."

_Whatever... __Just get on with it already, _she thought. _Stop all this pointless slobbering and fuck me. _She grasped his cock, teasing and caressing the head until it glistened with a milky bead of pre-semen. _Ah, that's more like it._

He pulled down the cups of her bra and her tits flopped out like a couple of sacks of jelly. He took a handful of one, moulding and appreciating, running his thumb over flesh that shrank back deliciously from the cold. Her nipples were already nice and hard and he pinched and rolled them a bit before testing them with his tongue. He was definitely a biter. It was more painful than she was used to, but that somehow added to the thrill.

He teased one of the hard nodes in his mouth like it was a mint imperial.

"Protection?" It was the first time she had spoken since they entered the room.

"Just a minute." He came up for air and tried to extract his wallet from his jeans pocket, but couldn't quite reach. It wasn't easy with her full weight on him and he inched his pocket closer to his hand with his foot, almost tipping her off in the process.

"I don't think I can wait a full minute," she cocked her head like a velociraptor as he fiddled with the frustrating packet. When he'd finally gotten the condom out and rolled it on she raised an eyebrow, "ribbed? And wait, is that the aroma of... pineapple?"

He was embarrassed but amused. "It's all they had in the machine at Esso. Think you can handle it?"

"That was before we even set off for Shoreditch."

"You caught me." He innocently held up his hands.

"If I'd known that, I would have shagged you sooner."

"Try not to sound too desperate."

"You say that like you're not." She clasped her hands behind his neck and rocked forwards slightly, rubbing herself on his cock, the shaft trapped between her mound and his own body, her slit slick and engorged with anticipation. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. "Mmm… that's nice. I wish I could keep you, tied to a chair."

"Let me come inside you," he said, kissing her neck again, but not so urgently this time.

_Oh, boy, he's one of those... great._ "I'm not done with this part, yet. Shut up and stay up." She ground herself harder and harder against him, getting all she could before they moved onto the next stage.

Then she became still, tossing her hair and catching her breath. They sat looking at each other in the half light for a moment. He was nice. Well balanced, no weird hang ups, had interests outside of work. His body under the t-shirt wasn't amazing, but had a kind of every-man buffness to it. He would have made an okay boyfriend in an alternative universe. Shame she was going to use him and then toss him away. But it wasn't too late to change her mind. There was still a chance that he would respect her in the morning.

The question of how far they should go hung in the air.

"Do it," he told her and a jolt ran through her, knowing that he would be inside her at any moment. _Fuck having a boyfriend_; they were too much trouble anyway. It was better this way. Any emotion must be killed at birth and replaced with a cold, calculating determination to getting her rocks off. She positioned herself and thrust down. No matter how many times you did this, it was still thrilling the first time you had someone new.

She bounced slowly, languidly, so that she could feel the tip going in and out. It was like being freshly penetrated each time; glorious and voluptuous and naughty. Her thigh muscles burned with the effort. She hit a sensual plateau and began to make a funny little whimpering noise with each thrust. This seemed to encourage him, so he began bucking with renewed vigour. Faster now. And when she turned her head, she could see her breasts bouncing in the glass picture frame over the mantel. It was fucking hot. She reached down and stimulated herself so that he could keep his hands free to hold her hips.

If he had something to say about her taking charge of her own clitoris, that was _his_ problem. "I'm gonna come soon," she said.

"So am I." His hands wandered to her buttocks and then she felt him press on her arse-hole. Without permission. But she wasn't offended enough to tell him to stop. He slid in a finger and pressed on her tight little muscles.

_Fuck, he really knows what he's doing, _she thought, _how... refreshing. _She wanted to say something, but she was too caught up in the moment. The climax swept over her and she moaned, hitting out at the back of the sofa. She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't... _stop_..."

It was good, but it was one of those reliable everyday orgasms, nothing like the transcendental ecstasy you attained from fucking someone you actually thought you loved.

He carried on bucking even though he was spent, which was very considerate, but when she finally relaxed and hung her head in exhaustion, he did stop.

"Are you done?" she said, feeling him twitch deep inside.

"I'm done." He slid out of her. She climbed straight off without saying another word, numb and guilty. She couldn't look him in the eye right now, afraid that he'd want to kiss her, to look at her some more. But that was not what she wanted; she wasn't in love with him. "Jesus Christ, Janine. I don't think I can even walk now. That was fantastic."

She unhooked her bra and finally rolled down the stockings, standing in front of him completely naked. "That was… well, it was certainly interesting."

"Interesting-good?"

"Yeah, it was... Okay." She reached for a silk kimono on a hook by the door.

"Want to do it again?"

"I have an early start," she said, tying up the belt and beginning to tidy up a bit. "I think it's better if you just go."

"Nothing like a spot of post-coital frankness." He tucked himself back into his pants, still semi-hard and blushing, and discretely wrapped the rubber in a tissue. For some reason, she didn't hate him as much as she thought she would.

"I'm not joking, Sandy. If Charles finds out we screwed..."

"What on earth has it got to do with him? He's not your boyfriend."

"You saw what he was like in the office... everything for him is a kind of power game. He thinks if I ever meet someone I'll leave him, and he'll make my life hell to stop that happening. I've got to be careful."

He came over and stroked her arm, his jeans still dangerously unbuttoned. His musk and his warm, strong presence were like a balm. "Seriously, you have nothing to worry about, I promise."

"Don't... don't be like _that_. Let's just call this what it is, Okay? It was a bit of fun. I barely know you. I got what I wanted from you and you can leave now."

"If that's how you really feel..."

"No it's not, but the force of habit is strong."

"The force is strong with this one..."

She chucked him his coat. The sleeve slapped him in the face. "Oh, and that thing you did, near the end..."

"Yeah."

"Next time, give me a fair warning."

"Oh," he said, hand on the door handle, "was that not Okay?"

"If it wasn't Okay there wouldn't be a next time."

"So you don't mind shagging someone you've just met, but your ass is off limits," he said a little sarcastically, picking up his keys and phone from the little table by the door. "I'll try to remember that for the future."

"I didn't say I didn't want you to do it. I just think we should discuss it before hand, alright?"

"Fair enough," he shrugged, wedged in the doorway.

"I'll call you sometime." She pushed him out of the door and shut it quickly before he could protest.

* * *

><p><em>Thursday 11th October 2012<em>

* * *

><p>The next morning, Janine prayed that she wouldn't bump into Sandy at the office. Magnussen had engaged the PI without consulting her and she had no idea what their appointments were. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him again, on the contrary, she believed that if they had the opportunity and the inclination to practice the art of fucking more often then it could turn into something quite... positive. Two sex addicts who had found each other against all odds in a huge city. But she knew that she wouldn't be able to keep up the rouse of seeming disinterested if they were all in the same room together. Her prayers were answered at around midday when she was preparing to leave the office for lunch and he still hadn't shown up. If he was coming, he would have come by now.<p>

Magnussen caught her on the way to the lift when he was just coming out of his meeting with Cornelius, the page-one editor. "I was hoping I'd be able to pin you down today, talk about our travel arrangements..."

"It'll have to wait until I get back from lunch. You know how I get when my blood sugar goes down."

"Don't remind me." When she looked down and didn't smile or speak he said, "Oh, you're still angry with me for the other day."

In fact, she'd been pleasantly surprised how charming he'd been on the plane to Dubai and how normal he'd seemed all weekend, normal for him, at least. They were back to their usual working relationship. She wasn't going to forgive him that easily, though. She couldn't be bought off with yet another dress.

She bluffed. "Not at all, it was just a misunderstanding."

His eyes searched her for a moment and she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"How was your time with Sandy last night?"

_Does he know? Straight face, straight face,_ she willed herself, checking there was no-one else lurking around in the reception area. "He's very good at what he does, but I'm afraid the evening was a bit of a damp squib."

"How so?"

_You know very well things didn't go to plan, you arse-hole. _"Look, Charles, I think you may be asking the wrong person. I'm not cut out for that kind of thing and I really don't want to do it again. It's not what you're paying me for anyway."

"Of course not," he said to her great surprise. He sounded almost... well, jovial. "If you're not comfortable. I should never have put you in that position."

"Thank-you," she said, relieved, "I knew you'd be reasonable."

"In fact, I've decided to call off the case against Miss Harrington."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it seems I've got what I wanted from her after all. When you come back from lunch, you can call Mr North and tell him his services are no longer needed. And sort out some kind of remuneration for the inconvenience. Whatever is his..." he waved his hand, "usual fee."

"Certainly." She turned toward the lift again, feeling a bit better about everything, and swiped her ID card. If Sandy was no longer in Magnussen's employ, there would be less chance of him finding out she was still seeing him. However, she was still confused as to why Sandy would claim to be on a retainer. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything about that. "Easy come, easy go. I think it was Confucius who said that. Or was it Elvis?"

She stepped into the lift.

Magnussen wasn't going to let her go without the last word, though. "The world is full of useful sayings. I wonder, have you ever heard the parable of the little girl who's employer found out she once nearly got caught laundering money for her ex-fiance?"

_What. The. Fuck._ She swallowed thickly. "No."

"I always liked that one," Magnussen laughed, pretending to search his brain for the story, "it was rather... _funny. _Do you know how it ended?"

"No." Her heart quickened, pressing the button for the floor below.

"She thought she got the job because of her excellent qualifications. Hilarious. What she didn't realise is that he never, ever employed someone who didn't have a past he could exploit. He had to protect himself, you see. Even from those closest to him."

"And what did she... do?" The doors began to close, her palpitations deafening now.

"Everything he wanted." Magnussen smirked as he passed out of view.

As the lift descended all she could think was, _if someone else doesn't do it first, I'm going to kill him._


	3. Parabolique

PARABOLIQUE

* * *

><p><em>Sunday 11th August 2013<em>

* * *

><p>"Well, it's not the first time someone's showed up at my door at two a.m. in a tuxedo." Rodney Vincent, not his real name, stood aside and ushered Sherlock Holmes into the minimalist riverside apartment. The walls were white and the furniture was sparse. It was one of a series of places Rodney had rented so that he could never be traced.<p>

"It's called a morning suit." Sherlock extracted a packet of twenty Embassy and a lighter from the pocket of his greatcoat and flung himself down on the sofa, preferring to vault over the back of it, rather than walking around like any normal person. "Mind if I smoke?" He didn't wait for an answer before lighting up. He could see the bedroom through the crack of the door and, in contrast to the living area, it was strewn with used linen and something vaguely human passed out on the bed.

The Samurai swords displayed on the wall were real and slightly worrying.

Rodney, a greasy, twitching rat of a man, poured him a scotch from the gleaming white sideboard. "First question; why the tux, second question; I thought you'd given up smoking, third question; I thought you'd given up the gear."

"I've been to a wedding."

"And the second and third?"

"Not even questions. If you'd bother to use the correct syntax, I might even bother to answer." Sherlock took a long, sublime drag on the cigarette, eyelids fluttering closed in ecstasy. "Oh, that is... that is beyond description. Why did I give up again?"

Rodney placed the scotch and an ashtray down on the glass coffee table before Sherlock could drop ash on anything.

"Grammar aside, must've been one 'ell of a wedding. What the fuck 'appened at it to bring you to me? Was it the bride or the groom?"

"Neither." None of them were the reason he was here tonight. Not John. Not Mary. Not the... the _baby._

"Ah, both then. Y'know, most people would try to break this palpable tension with some kind of light 'umour."

"You're my dealer, not my therapist, and I'd feel a lot more comfortable if people's roles in my life didn't try to encroach on each other. Much better for everyone that way, don't you think?"

Rodney sat down opposite him on one of the white leather sofas, dangling this own glass of scotch over his knee. "You've been away for a long time."

"Sober for four years, can you believe that?" There was a beat while Sherlock considered the irony and blew smoke ceiling-ward.

"Knew a guy who went back on it after ten years. They always come back. Still, you 'aven't done it yet. There's still time to walk away."

"Some salesman you are."

"If you're gonna be found in some alley tomorrow, that's just as bad for business. You've got a public profile now."

"How did you know about that?"

"What, you think I don't read the news. Sobriety's done a lot for you, sure you want to throw all that away?"

"You know me, Rodders, I'm careful."

"Careful, eh? I heard about the epic bender when you couldn't save that posh girl from her boyfriend. First time you ever touched crack. Flatlined about six times wasn't it-"

Sherlock cut him off, "yes, well, I'd rather not revisit that episode, thank-you. I was young and idealistic and I learned from my mistakes."

"Sure this isn't the same situation?"

"I'm touched Rodney, really I am." Sherlock smoked elegantly for a moment, and then stubbed it out with an inch to go. "Actually it's nothing to do with tonight. It's for a case."

"What case?"

"One where I have to convince someone I'm a hopeless smack-head and try not to kill myself in the process."

"China white, then."

"And not kill me. I thought I said that."

"Alright, alright, steady on. I've got just the thing." Rodney got up and went over to the kitchen. "I'm glad you came to me and didn't just go for any old junk off the streets."

"As if I would do that. You forget; I see myself as a connoisseur."

Rodney rummaged in the oven and came back with a sealed plain vanilla polythene package, the kind you sent by Fed-ex.

Sherlock opened it and extricated five individual vials, holding them up to the light like insidious chandelier crystals.

"Pharmaceutical grade 'ydromorphone," Rodney announced proudly, "the stuff they give you if you get crushed in a train crash then they 'ave to amputate your leg in an 'urry and the morphine's not working."

"That's an oddly... specific scenario," Sherlock frowned.

"The Rolls Royce of opiates, that is. Not as potent gram-for-gram as the china but much cleaner, safer. That don't mean it's an inferior hit, though. Every fucker would be on that if they knew how good it was, but I think the government tries to 'ide it, a conspiracy, like. Two mills of that and you won't never wanna come down. Fuck, you won't just be close to God, you'll _be_ God."

"I don't know." Sherlock screwed up his face with doubt as he read one of the the tiny labels, and then threw the package back.

Rodney caught it and looked at him for a moment. "Ha, I know what you're trying to do. You're doing that psychological trick on me. It's not gonna work. I'm not moving on the price." He typed a figure into his phone and slid it to his customer over the table.

Sherlock took one look and choked on the cheap scotch. "What are you trying to do to me, Rodders?"

"You've been away, you don't know the scene any more. All I'm saying is, this stuff's in short supply, even the hospitals ain't got enough. I gotta take huge risks to even get it. Got a guy in Germany who-"

"It's a bit steep."

"Come on, don't give me that. I know you're good for it. People come to me because they want discretion, convenience and quality. They don't care about the price. An addict with money is a dangerous thing, Mr 'olmes."

"Have you tried it?"

"No, man, ain't no way I'm going down that road. I'm not stupid; I'm an entrepreneur. I'll leave it to those of you who have nothing left to live for. Me, I'm happy as Larry, can't you tell?" The rat gestured around at his business enterprise. "Do most of my selling online now, yeah, the dark web, that's how it's done. Raking in ten to twenty a week. 'Course, if most of my clients were like you..."

Sherlock thought about it while he knocked back the rest of his his drink. He grimaced at the strength of the alcohol, unused to taking his psychoactive substances orally. There were more efficient, more elegant methods of delivery.

_Dutch courage. _

Rodney always tried to soften you up before he went in for the kill. God knows what he did with the money. Property, most likely. Rodney must be a millionaire by now; he'd been doing this for at least a decade, supplying to soap-stars and Canary-Wharf high flyers. 'People' liked Rodney. Sherlock didn't. "I could just walk into a hospital and steal it."

"And risk getting arrested? What would 'appen to your client if you ended up in jail?"

"Good point."

"That's why you come straight to the top. Ain't no juggler on the streets gonna protect your sweet ass like Rodney Fucking Vincent."

"Don't for one second delude yourself that you are at the top of the food chain." Several sweaty stand-offs with heavily armed Lithuanian gangsters had taught him that. Rodney looked hurt. Sherlock deposited his empty glass on the table, rose from the sofa and tried to look like he was leaving.

"You got the sponds or not?" Rodney's inner businessman kicked in.

Sherlock sighed and handed him an envelope.

"Do I need to count it?"

"Now you're the one attempting to break the tension with humour." Sherlock received the package and concealed it in his poacher's pocket.

"You need works?"

"I'm sorted thank-you, but it's ever so considerate of you to ask."

"All part of the service." Rodney shrugged.

"Oh, there was one more thing." Sherlock reached into his breast pocket as he turned back. "This is a post-dated cheque for a grand."

"What's this all about then?" Rodney examined it for authenticity, his swarthy brow furrowing.

"It's a fail-safe for me and an incentive for you. If I come back for more within a month you are not to sell it to me. Under _any_ circumstances. No matter how much I beg, do you understand me? That should cover the inconvenience."

"If you say so. What happens after a month?"

"I should have the case closed by then." _Because it'll either be solved or Lord Smallwood will be dead._

"And what's to stop you getting the gear from someone else?"

"I burned a lot of bridges. Pissed off the Lithuanians. Everyone thinks I'm going to grass on them now. But let's say I do; I'll be dead within a month and you'll get your grand anyway."

"And in the unlikely event that I don't see you again?"

"I congratulate myself on my colossal self-control and then I have the bank stop the cheque."

"'Ardly a very good incentive now, is it?"

"You'll only profit from my weakness, of course, but you can't deny; it's faultless logic."

"You _will_ be back for more. Within a week. I'm one 'undred percent sure of it."

"We shall see." Sherlock swept back out into the hall, narrowly missing Rodney's next visitor, a slight young woman with a baker's boy cap pulled down low over her face, and hands in white hoodie pockets. "By the way; you were wrong. It was the chief bridesmaid," he said as he walked away.

"Good night Mr 'olmes." Rodney didn't even look up from the cheque as he ushered the girl in and closed the door. "Fucking lunatic."

But when he went back to the kitchen to deposit the money, something occurred to him. How did Holmes know to bring the exact amount? How did he know he wasn't going to charge more? Who the fuck pays someone a grand not to sell them more? For the rest of the night, Rodney couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been played in some way.

* * *

><p>Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he took a cab from Bermondsley back to Baker Street. He savoured the sensation of being carried along, out of control, as they sped past street-lights, oranges and reds and whites and greens. It was so hard to switch off sometimes. He didn't want to know about the cabbie's liver disease, but there it was in his jaundiced sclera. Or the Nando's sauce on his shoe, even though he'd already eaten at home. Wife - no, long term girlfriend is a bad cook, then. Or the Ladbrokes receipts in his pocket. Or the reason he hadn't wanted to go on holiday to Alicante. Again. He didn't want to know about so many things, the the things people didn't need to say out loud, but sometimes there was no way to shut it out.<p>

The streets were quite empty at three a.m. so his journey wasn't hampered by the usual traffic and there was a lingering humidity in the air. He'd always enjoyed the small hours, the freshness of night wiping away the sins of the day and the anticipation of sunrise. But tonight he could only see forward to one thing.

Despite the clement weather, he'd kept his great-coat on throughout his escape. John and Mary's happiness had left him cold and guilty. The hard lump in his coat pocket was a symbol of how his throat felt right now. If he'd been asked to put it into words he would have failed. _Never was any good at all this emotional bunkum._ All he knew was, there was a mass like a tennis ball or a rock that refused to budge from his chest.

Much better to concentrate on the case.

He'd perfected 'The Plan' on the two hour journey from Bristol city centre to London. He'd had to work quickly; Lord Smallwood was running out of time and Sherlock hadn't had any success until now. It had been months since Elizabeth had first contacted him. Nine months to be exact. Enough time to conceive and give birth to a human being. The realisation of that particular bit of trivia had precipitated an ironic snort from him and made the other passengers on the night train turn around and fail spectacularly at minding their own business. Most of them were drunk anyway, gamblers returning home red eyed, sheepish and broke from surreptitious forays out to any establishments that hadn't seen them barred yet. Establishments far from their loved-one's eyes and consciousness.

He'd ignored them and returned to his meditations, facing backward with his arms on the arm rests.

Meeting Janine had been the best break that he'd ever had or probably ever would have.

It had been while he was giving her the impromptu dance lesson that she'd mentioned the telegrams. (_What was so funny about the telegrams anyway?_ he thought.) One of them had been from someone called Cam. Or was it CAM? She'd told him that the Watsons weren't personally acquainted with the newspaper magnate, that they weren't that interested in her work anyway, and that she hadn't told her boss whose wedding she was taking the weekend off for. Surely Charles wasn't _that_ vulgar, that he'd send a sarcastic message about Mary's deceased parents, just because she'd married a man that very often graced the front page of many of his publications. Even if it was playing second fiddle to Sherlock.

She'd said all this while he'd twirled her around, joking that Charles might be worried he was going to lose his front page stars to this marriage.

But by the time she'd perfected the basic steps in a waltz, she'd dismissed the idea; it was probably just an old friend called Cameron. There were a lot of Cams in the world. Just a coincidence. Sherlock had laughed it off and commented that there were indeed hundreds of Camerons born every year, and tried to seem totally disinterested in her work. But inside it was like Christmas. Here he was waltzing around with Magnussen's PA, her small hand in his left and her waist firmly in his right, breathing her YSL perfume, looking into her eyes and trying not to let her see his soul.

For her it was just a dance, nothing more, nothing less. For him it was a gift of hope. She was the key to the whole operation, and it really couldn't have been more perfect.

* * *

><p><em>This is not about getting high.<em>

_This is a cold, hard, technical experiment. It's essential to the success of the case. It's not about feelings, it's all about the work._

Sherlock returned to an empty flat, the tiny glass vials burning a hole in his pocket and in his mind like nothing before. Elizabeth had given him _carte blanche_ to do whatever it took, within reason, and now it was time for a government sponsored dope-fest. He had to experiment if this plan was to work, didn't he? He didn't like too many variables.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

This was not 'going back'. This was just something that was necessary and that he knew how to do.

He shrugged off the rented jacket and tie, locking the doors in case he wasn't up by the time Mrs Hudson got back in the morning. If he died tonight then he didn't want her to be the one to find him. It was a ridiculous thought, not fully formed, _you're not going to die; you've done this a thousand times,_ but it was enough to make him go back and try the handles.

Gathering some kit, he went to his room and sat on his bed for a long time, the only light coming from the lamp on his night stand. He stared at the tiny vial that contained a monster. It wasn't dead; it was only sleeping. Dare he wake it? Because once he woke the monster and fed it, there might be no going back. You can stab it with your steely knives, but you just can't kill the beast.

He looked up the pharmacokinetics and contraindications on a medicines app that John had told him about. But no amount of chemical information, analysis and reasoning could take away the repulsive seediness of what he was about to do. A responsible junkie with all the right equipment was still a junkie. It was like gilding a shit. He could justify it any way he wanted, but at the end of it all, he was still abusing himself.

He rolled up the sleeve of the crisp white shirt and swabbed his arm with an alcohol wipe, before filling the hypodermic with only half the recommended dose. His opiate resistance had gone down to exactly zero after all these years and he hadn't so much as taken a codeine for a headache since two thousand and nine. He was an opium virgin again. And after all, it wasn't like he was in pain. He wasn't having his leg amputated.

Just his heart.

He got rid of the air bubbles. His phone and a pre-filled dose of Naloxone from John's first aid kit were close by, just in case, and he clenched his fist four or five times to increase the circulation.

He waited, needle poised in hand, and watched the blood pump through his cephalic and median cubital veins. They stood out like the marble blood vessels of a renaissance statue. One breath. Then two. Between the breaths he aimed the needle. He was like a marksman sizing up his target, slowing down his autonomic nervous system so that a stray twitch wouldn't scatter the bullets asunder.

There was still time to change his mind. Heartbeats stretched into an infinity. He could see that he was having slight palpitations. Where did this come from so suddenly? Was he so nervous? It was like the first time, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again. Like plunging off The Serpent's Lair on Inis Mór. Or the thrill of that first theft. Only without the fear of Mycroft's sanctimonious preaching. Where was his voice of reason now?

And then the strangest thought popped into his head, unbidden. _What would Molly say if she could see you?_

In a fit of what he could only describe as reckless and sadistic rebellion against her imagined concern, he sent the needle home. Blood swirled in with the fluid as he pulled the syringe back and then delivered a shot of the devil's finest into his bloodstream. He did it all on autopilot, without thinking. It was like riding a bike, only for him, riding a bike was more like shooting up. He let the used needle fall away from his hand and pressed on the wound.

One heart beat... two beats...

_Seven seconds._

And then -

_Oh, fuck._

_Rodney was right. That is some good shit._

He lay down on the covers and waited for the euphoria to climax. The whole universe was reflected in those constricting pupils, like a Galilean lens. It was both beautiful and horrific at the same time. Sherlock was not a man of faith, but he felt like he could kiss the face of God right now. Then a fucking elephant was sitting on his chest. He was sinking through the floor, through existence...

_Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This might not be good._

He waited a million years.

He tried to remember that he was supposed to keep breathing if he wanted to continue living.

He forgot about the phone and the Naloxone.

He forgot his name.

He kissed _'welcome back'_ to the monster. It was out and now it was he that was in the cage. The slave grovels so easily before his master. But, _oh God,_ he could get used to this. People always said it was better if you went away from the drug and came back after a long time, and in a way they were right, but he knew it wouldn't be long before the buzz got less and less and he would be right back where he started. The worst thing was, he was still in the middle of the rush from this hit and he was already planning the next one. He didn't think he could wait a whole week. It shocked him how quickly he went back to old thoughts and old habits the moment that molten gold was coursing through his veins.

Then he passed out.


	4. Existante

EXISTANTE

* * *

><p><em>Sunday 11th August 2013<em>

* * *

><p>Aspirin was the only name on Janine's lips that bright and disgustingly chirpy morning.<p>

She bravely cracked open crusty eyelids to find that she was alone in the bed and fecking little birds were tweeting outside on the window ledge. She imagined popping them off in a tin-pot fairground shooting range, or at least opening the window and crushing the little bastards, but that might not go down too well with the hotelier. Avian carnage on a sunny Sunday morn was not usually a quality desirable in ones guests.

The birdsong echoed through her brain like a locomotive. This could quite possibly be one of the worst hang-overs she'd ever had. It had started with a modest amount of the champagne, there were toasts and speeches etc. and then she had moved on to the harder stuff as the evening had worn on. Whether it had been fuelled by Sherlock's abandonment of her was still under investigation. The grey-haired inspector had bought her a couple of rum and cokes. Even now she wished she'd held her shit together enough to proposition him. Damn, what was his name? It was all a fuzzy blur now.

She stumbled into the bathroom for the compulsatory morning-after urination, stopping for a glance in the mirror on the way. She still had on the lilac bridesmaid's dress, only now it was hitched unattractively around her hips, and her mascara was smudged up her face.

_If only Daddy could see his good little girl now._

Her Lois Vuitton toiletries bag sat in the bathroom next to some of those tiny bottles of limited utility. They were Molton Brown; far exceeding her expectations of the modest, last-minute on-line bed and breakfast booking, so she scooped them all up and deposited them in the wash bag. She stripped off the dress and stepped into the shower, turning on taps that were desperately in need of repair, and spread one of the shampoos through her hair while she analysed her evening.

How had one man managed to captivate her so? She'd thought of nothing but Sherlock since they'd locked eyes at the front of the church, their meeting hitherto postponed by one schedule conflict or another. Until then he was yet to be a real person in her mind; just a myth in a tabloid, the mysterious subject of John's anecdotes. Now that they had a kind of rapport, a conversation, a touch on the arm, he was real and fleshed out and she began to feel things which made her disconcertingly vulnerable, like she might do something really impulsive. Her interest had deepened when he proceeded to solve a crime during his best-man speech. It was truly spectacular. She wouldn't be able to get on with her life while he was out there being all brilliant and... Sherlocky. There was only one way to fix this; get it out of her system. Namely; get off with him. More hopefully; shag him.

It had been a couple of months since Sandy had stopped returning her calls and she hadn't met anyone interesting lately. Funny that; she'd thought it was going well. They'd met up regularly for a no-strings-attached shag or a takeaway, and he didn't require her to meet his friends or anything boring and couple-y like that. He understood her need for discretion because he needed it too. The perfect situation. But then she had a busy couple of weeks in June. She'd neglected him, and when she'd texted, _'what's up?' _he hadn't replied. She didn't want to be pathetic and needy so she let it slide and it just petered out. She even began to doubt her own magnetism.

Then a ray of hope; meeting Sherlock was like all her birthdays and Christmas at once.

Once wrapped in a towel and back in the depressingly purple room, Janine flumped herself down on the bed and checked her phone. There were about 15 harassing messages from Charles. He didn't even know the meaning of the word 'boundaries', that man, not to mention that his humour was dryer than a dromedary's tongue in a Timbuktuan sunbed.

* * *

><p>MESSAGE -CHARLES MAGNUSSEN– 1008/2013 Sat 19:53

_Hope you are enjoying your nice, fattening wedding cake._

* * *

><p>Sounded like he was in a bad mood.<p>

Every month she vowed would be her last. Every pay-cheque that came through she would look at the figure and tell herself that it wasn't worth enduring the way he treated people, the manipulation and the eyeball flicking.

She scrambled to the other side of the dubious Jacquard covers, rummaging in her bag for a change of outfit. Life had very quickly taught her to travel light and she rarely ever carried more than a change of underwear and a flirty dress.

Once dressed, she slipped out of the room on tiptoes and made her way downstairs for coffee. People were probably still asleep and in a much worse state than she had been, so she daren't creak the floorboards. A habit that had germinated in the claustrophobic Dun Laoghaire council house she'd shared with an older brother and sister who, as students, were rather too fond of their liquid refreshment and rarely rose before midday. While they were frittering away their lives, she had been squirrelling away knowledge and skills and trying to make herself indispensable. Trouble was, now that she was indispensable to someone it wasn't all it cracked up to be.

The dining room was full of people she probably remembered from the wedding, and definitely didn't care about. That strange little woman with her yellow bow and her meat-dagger fiancé. They looked like they'd had a fight, heads silently bowed over breakfast. She couldn't remember their names. But one person she _did_ recognise. Who was to greet her, sitting at a table on his own, but Chris.

"Oh, hi," he said.

"Good God, does everyone have to talk so loud?"

"Hangover?"

A waitress brought Chris's bacon and eggs.

"Like you wouldn't believe." She joined him at the table. "How are they?"

"How's what?" he said innocently, and she detected a tinge of confusion and embarrassment over what happened last night. Chris had abandoned her after one dance to go and have a row with his date, and when she'd looked around for Sherlock, he'd apparently jilted her before delivering on the much hyped dance. God, why did people have to be so complicated? That's why she didn't have real friends, just surrounded herself with people she thought might be useful one day. When they became too much like hard work, or developed signs of an attachment, she would drop them like a hot King Edward. Some might call her cold and ruthless, but as far as Janine was concerned, people were vastly over-rated.

"The eggs. How are the eggs here?"

"I believe they're free range," Chris said, brittlely.

"So..." she purred, "what happened to your date?"

"Oh." He paused, frowning. "She went home last night. She wasn't all that impressed with my hand jive." He accompanied the admission with that nervous little laugh people did to cover their own false humility.

"Oh, so we were both sleeping alone last night, then?"

"Wow, you have great powers of deduction."

"I also detect a hint of sarcasm." It was way to early in the morning for this kind of witty exchange. She checked her phone again; 9:52. _Oh, well, maybe not that early._ "Chris, how… how well do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"You just come right out and say what you mean, don't you?" He leaned back, mug pressed to his lips while she ordered breakfast from the passing waitress. "I guess you could say that he saved my life."

"I think I read about you."

"Then you'll know that I tried… tried to, you know."

"Kill yourself," she said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah."

"And Sherlock and John stopped you?"

"We kept in touch and now and then they defer to me on things geek, what ever's outside their sphere of experience. Comics, sci-fi…"

"I can't imagine there are that many cases that would involve a knowledge of sci-fi."

"You'd be surprised. There was a married couple who were heavily into Star Trek and I was able to shed some light on the nature of the relationships within the show and the consequently homicidal affiliations they made with their respective ships."

"Ships?"

"Relation_ships_. Some people believe Kirk belongs in a romantic relationship with Spock and some people believe McCoy's behaviour toward Spock hides a latent homosexual desire."

"You don't say. And Sherlock got you to tell him all about this, did he?"

"Without the insight that a knowledge of the fandom provides, he never would have discovered who committed the crime."

Chris actually wouldn't have been the worst choice for a forgettable fling. There wasn't anything horribly wrong with him, except that his glasses were too heavy and they kept slipping down his nose. That would drive her bloody crazy. He wasn't all that pretty either. She doubted Sherlock's taste in men. But then again, he'd been basing his suggestions on availability alone. "But, what's he actually like, in his natural habitat?"

Chris drank more coffee, thoughtfully, before answering. "Um, I know he comes over all intense and cerebral, but when you get to know him, he actually has a heart. Sometimes I think he doesn't even know he's showing it. It does tend to come out when he's talking someone down from topping themselves, though. Ask Henry."

That annoying, nervous, throat-clearing laugh again.

"Henry?"

"Henry Knight, the Dartmoor Beast, the Hound of Baskerville..."

"Oh, right. So he _has_ got friends."

"I suppose you could call us his friends. People who help out because he's helped them. More like a network of contacts he can call on when he needs something. Or to make up the numbers at a wedding when they don't have enough real friends or relatives," he added sardonically.

"Interesting." _Hmmm,_ they might have more in common than she first thought. This made Sherlock even more suitable for her latest conquest; he had moral principles, yet didn't form attachments easily. "Chris," she said as the breakfast arrived, "How are you getting back to the city?"

"I brought my car."

"How about you give me a lift and we'll have little chat on the way?"

"If you, um, if you say so."

_Oh,_ the poor unsuspecting lamb had no idea he was going to be interrogated for every last drop of information he had on Sherlock Holmes, and the worst thing was, he would give her everything because he would not be able to resist her charms, and he would never know he was the unwitting accomplice in the man's romantic subjugation.

"Good." Janine winked at Chris and tucked into her bacon and eggs with enthusiasm. Things were going to change for her very soon.

* * *

><p>It was the soundscape that betrayed the fact he was still on earth. The screech of seagulls dissecting someone's bins down the street. The murmur of next door's Radio Four on their kitchen window sill. General chatter and cars making their way down Baker Street.<p>

_No hurry._

There was a lilting change in the brightness of the room brought on by the rhythmic flutter of the curtains in the breeze. He'd left the window open. Red and black danced on his retinas.

And then a _'Coo-ee!"_ as Mrs Hudson unlocked the front door and bustled in with her overnight bag and something slung over her other arm... two, no three items of dry cleaning. Hat boxes. _"Anybody home…? Sherlock?"_

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he turfed himself out of the dishevelled bed clothes. His left arm and leg were still asleep, having been slept on, and he tripped and hit the floor face first.

Disentangling himself from the grey sheet, he realised he was still wearing his clothes from the wedding, only now one white sleeve was defiled with spots of blood. He shoved down the rush of guilt and lurched his way nauseously to the bathroom. It was like two thousand and three all over again.

_Too late. Done it now. Might as well embrace it._

* * *

><p>Not long after concealing the remaining vials and hypodermics in the travel case of his microscope, Sherlock decided that he would go shopping. He would also have to, at some point, return the wedding outfits that Mrs Hudson had 'thoughtfully' carried back from the hotel. That had been his responsibility, before he'd walked out of the reception, and boy wouldn't the old harridan let him forget it, beleaguering him with her '<em>I mean, really,'<em> and her, '_skipping out on us at a time like that, not even waiting to see them off.'_

So he'd concluded that the only way to avoid being henpecked and besieged by guilt was to get some fresh air.

But it wasn't fresh. It was hot and sticky and irritating, and smelled of Tesco's bakery and the stench of the unwashed _hoi polloi_. A child's sickly sweet ice-lolly, redolent with isoamyl acetate. Asphalt melting in it's midday measure of ultraviolet-B. Spices and anger and buses and disappointment. London in the summer.

Oh, how he loathed it. Summer, even an English one, wasn't exactly conducive to dressing smartly, which was the backbone of his self-image.

He felt decidedly choleric as he walked to WHSmith, though it was probably more to do with his plummeting endorphin levels than the irascible landlady. He must be careful to leave at least a week between doses, as he didn't much fancy riding the merry-go-round of addiction again. It would be only a matter of time before the effects diminished and he'd find himself needing more and more of the drug to gratify that primitive, sybaritic part of his brain.

A week would also give the injection site a chance to heal. One bruised pin prick could be explained away, but when you started to run out of places to safely inject, that was when you got into trouble. He was still haunted by the plight of tragic old Jasper Reid, who wasn't deterred from narcotics by the amputation of his left arm and started injecting himself between the toes. Jasper had built a name for himself as that crazy one-armed dude who injected in his feet all the time and didn't care about the weeping ulcers. He'd hit an artery one fateful evening, shuffled off his mortal coil and it was goodnight Vienna. They found him weeks later in a bath in a condemned high-rise, the body partially disintegrated from the long soak, ripping into two halves and spilling a colony of blue-bottle larvae when the undertakers tried to move it. In darker times Sherlock had often fantasised that this would also be his destiny.

Anyway.

He was sure John and Mary would forgive him for his absence at the reception. His obligations were over and done with, after all, and he had other things to attend to. Like work. Not that John would know anything about that, postponing his entire life to go and have sex for two weeks in a foreign country. Why did people need to go to Thailand to have sex? Couldn't they just do it at home, with access to a decent cup of tea afterward? What possible effect could a different climate and ecological profile have on the quality of ones orgasm? Perhaps there was room for experimentation upon that theme. Geographical variations on the satisfaction quotient of intercourse.

The mental image of anonymous people humping away in various other countries was somehow not that far away from the picture of Jasper's wasted corpse being carried off in several mushy pieces to be incinerated.

_Sex, death, what's the difference?_ He could wax lyrical about the connection between sensuality and the ecstasy of death.

He stopped abruptly outside Smith's, not really knowing how his feet had taken him there when his head was elsewhere. _Reliable old transport._ Inside the air-conditioned shop he put on the baffled-but-cordial-young-man routine to coerce a conveniently placed assistant into telling him which were the best women's magazines. The act probably wasn't necessary, but people gave away the most valuable insights when they were playing along with his little games.

And... after last night's adventure, he needed in some small way to prove to himself he was still here and still cogent.

He'd introduced himself to 'Jenny' as a fiancé trying to impress his beloved with his understanding of womankind, and he'd been interested to note that his claims of betrothal did nothing to deter the lascivious torrent of pheromones, body-language and subconscious social cues that spurted forth from the dim, herbivorous, walking fake-tan.

Although he regularly observed women's, and men's, subtle interest in him, it was noncontextual and therefore irrelevant. But now this little phenomenon was going to come into play in a big way. It was key to the success of phase two.

People desired him because he was unobtainable; it was a universal trope tried and tested by time. He might as well practice flirting sooner rather than later.

As Sherlock analysed the dynamics of their reciprocity, Jenny piled him up with magazines which she thought would help him understand the inner workings of the female brain, and which most accurately represented the statistical majority of her sex. He thought, _what the hell_, and got some pregnancy magazines as well.

He left the newsagent armed with copies of Glamour, Cosmopolitan and Marie Claire as well as a list of Jenny's DVD recommendations.

_Sleepless in Seattle, Shall We Dance, When Harry Met Sally, Thelma and Louise, Fried Green Tomatoes, How to Make an American Quilt._ The titles alone were enough to bore him into a heroin addiction.

Jenny abandoned him with a reluctant smile that said _'aw, you're so sweet, trying to please your girlfriend. She is one lucky girl to have you'._

He gave her a little wave and tried to keep up the ruse.

Paying at the till, he avoided the cashier's gaze as if the exchange with Jenny had exhausted his daily allowance of 'nice'.

He understood, naturally, people's motivations and desires. Without that insight, he could never solve crimes of passion, or crush errant spouse's hopes of concealing their affairs. He probably understood human nature better than anyone else on earth. But he was out of touch with what a woman might actually look for in him if she were to consider a relationship. _Oh God, what a hateful thought -_

Sex had always been detached and disappointing, impossible without an adequate supply of cocaine to assuage his crippling anxiety, a symptom of his sense of dissociation with humanity. Forever-more he would remain aloof; just an observer in this world, never participating in the libidinous fulfilment of others.

He would never gaze longingly into someone's eyes in the afterglow of a physical union. He would never experience the joy of siring offspring with another human being, no matter how noble an ambition that was. He would never be someone's 'other half', with all the pop-psychology _accoutrements_ and proverbial rainbows and butterflies that it invoked.

But now it was time to put all that aside and attempt what was probably the most audacious deception of his career; he was going to fake being in love.

With one of the most bewitching women he'd ever met.

And she was going to fall for him, hook, line and _naufrageur._

* * *

><p>"We're just coming up on Slough," the driver of the 1997 Ford Fiesta informed Janine.<p>

Five miles down the M4 she'd exhausted Chris's knowledge of the most interesting man in Britain. Then she had the rest of the journey to plan his seduction. This was going to be interesting given her new friend's insight into the life of Sherlock Holmes.

Apparently he collected discarded shopping lists found outside the supermarket with the sole intention of profiling the writer's personality, believing he could trace them from their handwriting and eating habits, and in some cases actually succeeding. He kept dog hair on the bathroom window-sill, regularly shunned food and sleep for seventy-two hours at a time, and talked to a skull. All the hallmarks of a bona fide eccentric.

Now that she'd met the man, and watched him at work, she understood the fascination people had with him. When she found out Sherlock was going to be the best man, she'd asked John for all the hot goss and he'd told her to read the blog with a strange, knowing look. Of course, she'd read the usual tabloid crap. Who hadn't? He was one of the sure-fire topics that sold papers in London. But it was John's own words that had sent a chill down her spine. '_And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much.'_

_Not safe? _Now, this appealed to her rebellious nature. _Pompous, arrogant?_ Sounded like a challenge to her.

He was totally unique, unlike anyone she had ever come across; utterly captivating.

This man, and all the possibilities he presented, definitely deserved more exploration.

* * *

><p>Sherlock spent the rest of the day avoiding Mrs Hudson, writing a scathingly sarcastic guest (hacked) blog post and obsessing over the magazines. It was like descending into another dimension, a surrealist nightmare of a landscape where nothing made any logical sense and everything depended entirely on emotion.<p>

What was it with these mascara adverts that said 86% of 173 women agree? 86% of 173 was 150 point 51. What happened to the other 49% of that last woman? Were there dismembered parts walking around somewhere wearing false eyelashes?

And what the hell was a 'vagacial'?

Of much more interest were the articles about ambition and achievement. It was becoming pretty clear that what women wanted was... _everything_, basically. They wanted men to be strong and they wanted them to be subservient at the same time. They wanted to be captains of industry and they wanted to stay at home... at the same time. They congratulated each other on clipping coupons and saving money, but they also fawned over an extortionately priced handbag. They wanted curly hair one week and straight hair the next, and they tortured it with strange devices to make it submit.

It was all very contradictory.

For some reason, people devoted their whole lives to fulfilling the quixotic whims of those blessed with a full set of X chromosomes. Who in their right mind would subject themselves to that? It only served to confirm his suspicions that love was a disease, spurious and evanescent, malignant and chimerical.

This wasn't going to be easy. In order to seduce a worldly and intelligent woman into believing his ardour, he would have to make it seamlessly authentic. Thank God he had MI6 tradecraft to fall back on. The most believable lies were 99% truth and that was an acceptable risk, because even if he told her the truth, after he dropped the bombshell, anything and everything he said would be suspect, open to interpretation. She would just assume it had all been lies, so he was free to tell her anything he wanted, within reason.

They would have to go through good times and bad times, overcome obstacles together, in order to build the kind of rapport that would make her willingly betray her employer for him, and he was going to have to do it in under 30 days. That was taxing enough for even the very best agents.

He sifted through the wedding invitation paperwork until he found Janine's number.

She would feel stupid and she would hate him. She would probably lose her job. But there were always casualties in war. The case came first. Defeating Magnussen at his own game came above all else.

There was no other way to win, but to make Janine fall in love with him.

He made the call.

* * *

><p>Janine had just got in when her mobile rang. She had to dump her Lidl shopping bags and wrestle the keys out of the lock before she could answer it.<p>

She didn't recognise the number. _Oh, God,_ she thought, _that had better not be Chris._ Maybe he'd gotten the wrong end of the stick when they'd said goodbye and somehow obtained her number.

"Hello?" She started unpacking the groceries, resting the phone under the crook of her chin.

_"Hello, Janine,"_ came a deep and exhilaratingly familiar voice.

She thrilled inside. _Better play it cool. _"You're supposed to wait three or four days before you call."

_"I beg your pardon?"_

"At least three days. Anyway, I have a bone to pick with you, mister."

_"Oh yes?"_

"You made me practice the waltz and then you deserted me before we even had a chance to show it off." She stopped stacking tomatoes and onions, and held the phone in her hand again. This deserved her full attention.

_"Yes, yes, I'm sorry about that. I'm afraid social situations are not really my thing, but that doesn't excuse me abandoning you. Can you ever forgive me?"_

"I might be able to see my way eventually. I'm guessing that's why you called. To apologise."

_"Actually, there was another reason."_

"Go on."

_"What you said, last night, that you wish I wasn't... It's just that I'm not... not whatever it is you think I am. I'm just... shy."_

"Okay."

_"I... look, I hardly ever... I _never_ do this, so you are going to have to bear with me here."_

"Alright."

_"Janine, since we met... I, I, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. In a good way. I've been thinking about you and - "_

"And you thought the best thing to do about this was to turn into Hugh Grant?"

There was only silence on the other end of the call. _Oops,_ maybe that was a little harsh, maybe she'd scared him off.

_"No,"_ he finally answered and she breathed a silent sigh of relief, _"I was just thinking that I'd like to see you again."_

"I think I'd like to see you too."

_"Well, that's... that's good. And unexpected."_ Silence again. And then, _"I don't really mean unexpected, I mean I didn't take it for granted that you'd... oh bugger."_

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

_"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to swear whilst asking you out, I - "_

"You're asking me out?"

_"I suppose I am. I mean, yes, I most certainly am. I'm asking you out on a... date."_

She heard him do a long exhale of _'whooo',_ like people did when they were psyching themselves up for something difficult. It was very sweet. She liked that. "We've already had a first date. In a way," she said. "There _was_ dinner and dancing. And crime."

_"Oh, yes. I suppose we have... In a way"_

"Only you have to promise not to jilt me this time."

_"I promise I will try not to run out on you."_

"Because that was really quite out of order, you know."

_"Yes, and like I said, I'm very sorry and I hope you can forgive me and I'd like to make it up to you by taking you out."_

"How about tomorrow night?"

_"Ah. That's probably not going to work. I have to sort out the wedding photos as soon as possible. I promised. Seeing as the photographer is now in police custody."_

"Oh, yeah. Of course - "

_"Under any other circumstances - "_

"No, you're right, you're totally right. What about Tuesday? I have every Tuesday off. We could have lunch."

_"Alright, Tuesday. You're on."_

A slightly awkward silence.

"Sherlock," she said, "this is the part where you tell me when you're going to pick me up."

_"Oh, right, yes, of course. I hadn't really thought about this part."_

"How about this then; you choose a time and a place and I'll be there. And you can show me your version of London "

_"Okay, this is interesting. Explain."_

"Well, I've been here two years now and I've never really done the tourist thing. All I ever seem to do is travel between the office and home and I was wondering if you would let me see the city through your eyes. I can't think of a better introduction than through someone who adores her." Seconds passed. Her ice-cream desperately needed putting away. "Sherlock," she said.

_"Yes. Um, Okay. I'll text you."_

"Great."

_"Stand by for further instructions."_

"I will."

_"Okay. Well, um, bye."_

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

_"Goodbye... Um, Janine?"_

"Yes."

_"Thank you for not making this too difficult."_

"It's no problem. But, y'know, you don't have to make it sound so much like pulling teeth."

_"Oh God, I'm so sorry - "_

"I'll see you Tuesday, then?" she said to interrupt any possible waffling.

_"Yes and, um, bye." _He clicked off.

Janine stood in her tiny kitchenette, staring at the phone in her hand.

_Well, this is a turn up for the books._ She let out a little laugh of amazement. She might not have to put all the effort into seducing him after all. But the that call had obviously been agony. He'd sounded by turns supremely confident,_ fake_, and a nervous wreck, _real_. It must have taken a lot of guts, considering how terrified he'd looked when he'd stood up and realised he was actually addressing a room full of people with a speech.

It was like watching road-kill.

* * *

><p>Sherlock laid his phone reverently on the kitchen table.<p>

_Oh God, that was... HORRIBLE._

_Why do people put themselves through this?_

He'd been planning for more Cary Grant than Hugh Grant, but halfway through the six or so rings of her phone, he'd realised that coming over all suave and perfect might actually work against him. This plan would work better if he played human and fallible... unthreatening.

As he went over the conversation in his head a thought nagged at the back of his mind. He'd sounded like... _don't even think it; it's ridiculous_... like he wasn't even acting, like he'd meant it, like...

Like he _liked_ her.


End file.
